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⚡︎⟡₊ ⊹
at the ripe age of seven, harry had already been let down by the man he called his father.
he was an alcoholic, ruthless with his actions and words, leaving a mark that would shape harry for years to come.
even as a child, the green eyed boy couldn't fathom how someone could turn out that way, what kind of pain or bitterness it took to become so lost.
he promised himself he'd never turn into that kind of man.
that dreadful day, like many others, returned to him often. he could still recall it with a clarity that both burned and chilled him. his mum, anne, humming some tune softly while the microwave spun, filling the kitchen with the buttery aroma of fresh popcorn.
the sun was shining bright through the window, casting everything in an almost too-perfect glow.
he remembered the comfort, the normality of it all—how quickly it shattered.
his father stumbled through the front door, reeking of alcohol, eyes glazed and angry. he could barely stand, yet somehow managed to burst into a tirade, his voice loud and venomous.
harry watched, wide-eyed, as his father spat harsh words at anne, and before he knew it, he was pushing her to the floor.
a rage bubbled up inside the young boy, new and fierce.
he'd never felt anything so powerful.
his small fists clenched, and with all the courage his seven-year-old self could muster, he puffed out his chest and marched right up to his father, swinging his fist as hard as he could.
he didn't do much damage, but the shock was enough to send his father doubling over, hands to his stomach.
for a brief moment, he felt victorious. but then his father looked up, and harry saw the fury in his eyes—a dark, twisted kind of hatred.
he shrank back, retreating to his mother's side, burying his face in her chest as she wrapped herself protectively around him.
✰
when it came to terrible fathers, harry knew all about them.
and after yesterday's events, he was struggling to keep his head above water.
watching the fear in your eyes, the way you'd frozen at the sight of your own father, had brought back every tortured moment he and his mum had endured.
now, he sits on the living room couch, his head heavy against his mother's shoulder as she rubs her hand gently up and down his back.
the tv is on, but the sounds are distant, drowned out by his thoughts.
his head throbs from the bruises he took yesterday, a reminder of his anger—and the violence that had spilled out of him in that alleyway.
